


Take A Sad Song

by kalewrites



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Avoiding your feelings, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Protective Steve Rogers, Steve is so soft, Steve knows how to kiss a girl, and don't let MCU tell you otherwise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 03:27:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14729090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalewrites/pseuds/kalewrites
Summary: After a particularly difficult mission, you unwind by playing your guitar only for Steve to overhear you playing a certain song.





	Take A Sad Song

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rewrite of my Dean x Reader fic "Make It Better" because I thought the tones fit Steve well and I wanted to post something whilst I was writing the next thing. Hope you enjoy :)

Gunpowder and fear. The smell clung to you like it came from you, stinging your nose and adding to the deep, throbbing pain pushing against your eyelids. The mission had been brutal, what you had marked down as easy intel gathering turned into a rescue mission, almost taking the life of a 4 year old girl with it. God, the things she seen, poor kid's childhood just got obliterated. Sometimes the cost is just too high. 

  
"You good back there?" Steve's voice is a low rumble, exhaustion bleeding in a little. He’s driving the car, less obvious than a jet he insisted. Less comfortable too, as it turns out.   
  
"Yeah, Steve. M'good." He glances over his shoulder for confirmation, his eyes lingering on yours a little longer than necessary and your heart trips over itself under his gaze, clumsy little thing, before you break away and tuck your chin down to stare at the floor.    
  
Steve flips on the radio, allowing the car to fill with the sounds of music and occasional static and you're grateful for the distraction, maybe you all are. Sam's slumped in the front seat, already dozing but his fingers tap against his thigh to the beat. Steve strums his against the steering wheel, singing along at the chorus, low and deep but there and it coils around your stomach and works up to your lungs and it just _stays_. The rest of the drive is relatively quiet, stopping only once for a bathroom break and snacks, Steve seems more anxious than normal to get back to the Compound; to get back home. By the time Steve rolls the car through the gates, your whole body has started to ache. Not that you were injured, just the ache that comes with exercise; split decision leaps and dives.   
  
"I'm gonna go clean up and hit the hay. It's been a long one." You tell them as you trudge up the stairs in the garage, desperate to rid yourself of that smell. They both grunt in your direction which you take as an acknowledgement.   
  
The shower helps, really helps, the hot water loosening your tight muscles and washing away the dirt and grime of the day. You belatedly realise that this might have the opposite effect on your muscles tomorrow but in this moment you don't care, turning the water as hot as you can stand it. The shower is probably longer than you need, minutes spent under the spray as though you might cleanse you thoughts too, your memories. Once your dry and wearing lounge pants, you quickly grab a drink from the kitchen and drape across your bed, test the edge of your consciousness with a few long blinks. The effort to close tells you your head is still a little too on and you're not quite ready to sleep. Tilting your head back over the edge of the bed your eyes land on your guitar.   
  
Ah, yes. Playing always helps you relax.   
  
You lean further and grab it, righting yourself and pulling it onto your lap, your fingers automatically settle over the strings, each callus on your finger resting in it's all too familiar position. You test it out a little, strumming notes haphazardly until you find a rhythm. A deep sense of calm settles over you, into you, until its bone deep and spreading. It isn't until you start singing along that you realise what song your playing.   
  
_Hey Jude, don't make it bad_ _  
_ _Take a sad song and make it better_ _  
_ _Remember to let her into your heart_ _  
_ __Then you can start to make it better   
  
"You know, might be time I followed that advice." Steve's voice echoes from your doorway, halting your playing since you almost fall off the bed in fright, "Sorry sweetheart, didn't mean to scare you."   
  
"Shit. Uh- it's okay Steve. I was just um..." You turn to him, considering all the reasons and deciding that your playing must be louder than you realise,, "I can stop."   
  
"Please don't..." His voice is low, a half-whisper at most, sweeping across you and directly into your heart. You'd never heard him sound so...open, vulnerable, well maybe not vulnerable because Steve Rogers was never that but as close to it as you've ever heard. It halted you a little, the moment tinged with sadness but also of something more, something different that you couldn't quite put your finger on. 

 

Your fingers move again, falling naturally into the rhythm of the song and filling the room with the sad, slow lullaby of missed chances and slow heartbeats. His eyes close and his head tips back against the doorframe, his arms crossed loosely across his chest, showcasing the thick sturdiness of them in a way that was all too distracting. 

  
This was Steve, standing there looking like the weight of the world was resting on those tantalising shoulders, and you suppose in some ways it was- repeatedly- but still, this was the Steve you knew, so full to the brim of need to protect, so weighed down with it that it astounded you he still nurtured one ounce of doubt on himself. That he still inherently believed he wasn’t as wholly  _ good  _ as Bucky, or Sam, or you. 

 

_ Hey Jude, don't be afraid _

_ You were made to go out and get her _

_ The minute you let her under your skin _

_ Then you begin to make it better _

 

There’s a knot in your stomach as your sing those words, afraid of the unintentional implication now that Steve’s here and listening. Afraid your want and hope will bleed into the song and he’ll  _ know _ . His eyes open and land on yours, look directly into your soul and yet and entirely unreadable. They strip you back, layer by layer, till the marrow is exposed and you can’t look away, eyes caught in the current that has your heart pushing up into your throat. Maybe he can hear your heartbeat in your voice. 

 

You close your eyes in an attempt to shelter yourself from him, from the overwhelming pull that only serves to split you in two every time you linger too long and your heart starts to hope. Your guitar makes a sound of protest as Steve’s fingers press down over yours, silencing the music and snapping your eyes open to find him much closer, hovering just inches away from your face. His chest is eye level, the full  _ firmness  _ of it just right there, heaving up and down with each breath and doing nothing at all to calm you. The air in your room is suddenly weighted and pressing down on you, every single atom loaded with a feeling that's threatening your resolve. 

 

“Why did you play that?” Steve’s voice scrapes low and deep, and maybe just a bit thready.

 

“I, uh, it’s-” You stumble a little over your words, trying to pull an answer or a reason that doesn't strip you bare, “It speaks to me.” 

 

He nods like he heard something else and moves his hand to your shoulder, hooking over and slipping up, taking up residence on the side of your neck. His thumb hooks under our jaw sending jolts of heat down your spine, each movement is slow and deliberate like he’s giving you time to stop him, like he doesn't know you wouldn't know how. He tips forward, brings his lips to yours but not quite, his breath tickling over your face and his fingers working into the hair at the snape of your neck. 

 

Then it happens, his lips touch yours in the barest of touches, skin against skin and nothing else. A soft sigh escapes before you can swallow it but it’s everything Steve needs, his lips press harder and more deliberately, your mouth slanting against his as your brain fires off a few hail marys as you fight to process. He smells amazing, like goodness and home and  _ just so Steve _ . His lips pull a little on your bottom lip, opening your lips and allowing his tongue to brush with yours, soft but insistent. The guitar is discarded on the bed and your fingers land on his chest and spread out, enjoying that fullness, the firm expanse of muscle warm and more than you thought it would be,  _ and you’d thought..a lot _ . He kisses your thorough, like he has every intention of rewriting your braincells to just  _ Steve  _ and nothing else. 

 

Finally, you part, heads braced together as you take in deep, shuddering breaths and it lights you up to see him so affected by you. 

 

“Damn... _ Y/N _ .” Steve says, sounding to utterly wrecked, “Fuck. That was-” His eyes close, slow and tight, then they’re on you again, dark and  _ settled  _ . 

 

“I know.” You whisper back, swallowing a couple of times as you try to ground yourself. Nothing came close, no thought or dream  _ or hope _ came close to how that felt. 

 

“Think it’s time to stop fighting this, yeah?” He says, a little firmer this time, his other hand clasping over your against his chest. The gesture not unnoticed, the gentle pressure of his hand saying what he isn’t, you hook your thumb over his and squeeze in answer. 

 

“Yeah. Yes, I’d, uh, I’d like that.” 

 

His answering smile turns your spine to liquid. Slippery bastard. 

 


End file.
